Batman vs Predator: The Next Generation
by ordinaryguy2
Summary: Another story by Carycomic! Come and read. Just don't forget to review!
1. Chapter 1

**Batman vs. Predator: The Next Generation**

by Carycomic

A "Batman/Predator/Star Trek:TNG" crossover.

**Characters and Concepts:** _if you recognize them, I don't own or profit from them._

**Note: **_the futuristic portions occur one year before STAR TREK: NEMESIS._

**TOP OF THE MARK,**

**MARK HOPKINS HOTEL,**

**SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA**

**(DECEMBER 18, 2378)**

"Captain! Over here."

Commander William Riker stood up from where he had been seated to wave his right arm in the air. Prompting Jean-Luc Picard to do likewise in smiling response. A minute later, both Starfleet officers were shaking hands and grinning like Cheshire cats.

"Thank you for joining me on such short notice, sir. Please, have a seat."

"Gladly. But, what was so urgent you had to call me all the way down from Drydock?"

Will delayed answering until he was eye-to-eye with his former commanding officer in their respective chairs.

"I'm going to ask Deanna to marry me. And, if she says '_yes_,' I want you to be my best man."

Picard, for all his well-documented skill at oratory, was literally speechless for a whole minute. Then, his grin returned, seemingly twice as wide as before. And he began to laugh with shamelessly loud joy as he pounded Riker on both shoulders.

"You young pup! It's about time!"

Riker's grin returned, as well (even as he massaged his aching shoulders).

"Then, I can take that as a '_yes_,' on your part?"

"Absolutely. I'd be honored! When are you going to pop the question?"

"When she gets back from visiting her sister's grave on Betazed. It's still somewhat awkward for her, learning she wasn't an only child, after all the years Lxwana kept it a secret. So, I figure this will cheer her up."

Picard nodded: "If it doesn't, I don't know what would. Assuming she says '_yes_,' what date do you wish to set it for?"

"One year from now. About the same time Enterprise-E comes out of Drydock."

"And, just before your departure to take command of the U. S. S. Titan," Picard noted: "Sound tactical thinking."

Riker beamed with gratitude: "Then let's order some champagne and drink a toast!"

When the waiter brought over a bottle of champagne (bucket of ice and all), Picard personally smelled the cork before filling the two long-stemmed glasses.

"What shall we toast to first?" he asked his former first officer.

"How about 'old friends?'" the waiter suggested. . .in a strangely familiar voice.

Both men looked up, and became drop-jawed with astonishment when they recognized who was serving them.

"Wesley?!" they chorused in unison.

**GOTHAM CITY, USA.**

**(TURN OF THE MILLENIUM)**

It had started three week earlier, with a letter-to-the-editor of THE GOTHAM GAZETTE.

That letter had complained about all the organized crime in Gotham. Crime "_allegedly_" controlled by one Rupert Thorne. And, which the local police were ineffective in dealing with as half of them were controlled by Thorne, as well!

That letter had been signed: "Mad As A Hatter (And Not Going To Take It Anymore)."

Exactly one week later, in the middle of the night, a certain millinery store burned to the ground. In combing through the ruins, afterwards, the GCFD arson squad found a secret sub-basement. One that ultimately turned out to be used, during the day, as a sweat shop. . .

. . .manned by illegal immigrants.

The fact that the millinery store had been owned by one of Thorne's holding companies quickly made front page headlines. As did a similar arson fire, the following week. Only, this time, the targeted business had been an ice cream parlor. One that was ultimately revealed to have been putting real cocaine in their ice cream colas!

And, which (like the millinery store) had been secretly owned by Thorne.

The very next day, THE GOTHAM GAZETTE received another letter from "Mad As A Hatter." This one, not only claiming responsibility for both fires. But, also, threatening a more pro-active strike against another of Thorne's operations. Although, that target was naturally not specified. And, after the signature, there was a postscript which admonished Thorne to. . .

"Beware of the Mean Berets."

Alfred Pennyworth, reading that headline the next morning, could only "_harrumph_" in mild derision.

"Could there be any worse way to slander the good name of the U. S. Army Special Forces than to form a vigilante militia with a punning allusion to the former's own nickname?"

Bruce Wayne did not even try to pretend to half-smile.

"It's worse than that, Alfred. The millinery store and the ice cream parlor were two of Thorne's most profitable fronts. And the bulk of their dirty money was laundered through his nightclub-casino. If this Mad Hatter sticks to his weekly pattern, then it's the Paradise Casino that will be hit next!"

"Is there any way to ascertain that for sure, sir?"

Bruce Wayne nodded: "Robin and I will have to take turns staking it out."

Meanwhile, back in the twenty-fourth century, the two Starfleet veterans had finally gotten over their profound astonishment at seeing their former shipmate, Wesley Crusher, apparently working as a waiter

"Good Lord!" Picard was the first to exclaim: "The last time we saw or heard of you, you had become the Traveler's apprentice on Dorvan IV. So, what in blazes are you doing here?!"

"It's good to see you, again, Captain," Wesley replied: "You, too, Commander. And, congratulations, as well! But, I'm afraid this isn't a social reunion. The Traveler and I need your help. What for. . .can't be explained here."

Whereupon, Wesley put the bucket of champagne on the table. An act which seemingly initiated a bright flash of golden light that momentarily dazzled Riker and Picard. When the two men finally regained control of their vision, the first thing they noticed is that they were no longer within the Top of the Mark. Rather, they were sitting upon passenger seats in what appeared to be a Federation runabout!

"Wesley!" demanded Riker: "What's going on here? Where are we?"

"Calm yourself, Commander," replied a deep (and shockingly familiar) voice from the pilot's seat: "You are aboard the U. S. S. Housatonic. A runabout that was recently flown to the homeworld of the Guardian of Forever. . .after first being stolen by our mutual acquaintance, Sela of Romulus."

It was not the enigmatic Traveler who had uttered that reply. If for no other reason than he was sitting in the co-pilot's seat! Rather, it was someone who was as well-known to most school children of the Federation as their own names. The one piloting the runabout was none other than. . .

Ambassador Spock of Vulcan.

** tbc**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2.**

Note: _the present-day portions of this story occur after the WB film BATMAN AND ROBIN (1997)._

* * * * *

Once again, the two Starfleet veterans were dumbfounded. Not only because of the identity of their pilot. But, also because of the name he had just uttered.

When they had first encountered that mysterious woman, face-to-face, she had claimed to be the half-Romulan daughter of former Enterprise-D security officer Lt. Tasha Yar. Although, not the one who had been senselessly killed, on planet Vagra II, by a malevolent liquid entity known as Armus. But, rather, an alternate Tasha Yar from a divergent time line!

One in which the United Federation of Planets and the Klingon Empire had finally gone to war with each other, without any Organian interference.

That Tasha Yar had supposedly gone back twenty years, into the past, while serving as acting first officer aboard a temporally displaced Enterprise-C. Consequently, she became both one of the few survivors of the historically crucial Battle of Narendra III. . .and the very reluctant wife of her chief Romulan captor. A man who would raise their mixed-blood daughter to hate the Federation with a passion unmatched by any full-blooded Romulan!

Riker looked at the Traveler. "What's she up to this time?"

The Traveler half-smiled.

"A most apt way of phrasing your question. You see, the Romulan Senate did not look too kindly on the failure of Sela's plan to invade Vulcan. So, as punishment, she was demoted to chief of security. . .for the Romulan embassy on Nimbus III."

Riker whistled in shock.

"Talk about a fate worse than death!"

The Traveler nodded: "That is precisely how she sees it. She is obsessed with avenging her disgrace! Towards that end, she made an alliance, at the height of the Dominion War, with the Cardassian who calls himself. . .Gul Dukat."

"What kind of alliance?" Picard whispered, with a slight edge in his voice.

"Through the Obsidian Order, Dukat obtained- -and gave to Sela- -the same Ferengi mind-control device that was once used on you, Captain. Using it to amplify the Vulcan mind-melding techniques she was personally taught by Subcommander Selok of the Tal Shiar (formerly known as Ambassador T'pel of Vulcan), she has gained control of a Delta Quadrant life form known as a '_Yautja_,' whose people come from a very old hunter/warrior culture. And, with him, Sela has gone back to twenty-first century Earth via the Guardian of Forever!"

"But, for what purpose?" Picard replied.

"To erase the very existence of one of the two men she holds responsible for her disgrace. She will use the Yautja to kill Ambassador Spock's earliest known ancestor on his mother's side. One Richard Grayson of Gotham City."

* * * * *

**WAYNE MANOR (14 MILES FROM GOTHAM CITY)  
**  
Dick Grayson looked at his mentor, as he finished suiting up.

"What makes you think there's more to this Mad Hatter business than meets the eye?"

"Because," replied Batman (seated before the console of the Batcave's mainframe): ". . .the timing of it is a little too convenient for my peace of mind. Let's look at the facts! Fact One: half of the illegal immigrants working as wage-slaves, in that sweat shop, are refugees from Southwest Asia. More specifically; the former North India Principality of Jammu and Kashmir. Fact Two: over the last six months, that region has seen a lot of turmoil instigated by this man."

The Dark Knight pressed a button. Bringing up on the monitor a photograph of a regal-looking foreigner wearing a golden turban.

"Khan Noonein Singh; a militant Sikh separatist leader who's been inspired by all the recent turmoil, in the Near East, to declare his own _'holy war of liberation_.' And, Fact Three: like certain other Asian countries, the Principality was split in half following World War Two. With the eastern half, Kashmir, remaining Indian; while the western half, Jammu, went to Islamic Pakistan."

That last fact was emphasized by the flags of those respective countries appearing over the names of the areas indicated on the computer-generated map.

"Don't tell me," said Robin (now standing by the Dark Knight's side): "Let me deduce. He. . . '_Sikhs_' to reunify the country under his totally autonomous leadership."

Batman could not help wincing: "Bad pun; good deduction. Towards that end, I believe that he's been smuggling heroin from Xinjiang Province, China, to Gotham City. Trading it to someone here for the arms and ammunition so vital to his little war."

As emphasis, a computer-generated red arrow now stretched between the two geopolitical points.

Robin crossed his arms. "I suppose it's too much to hope that that someone is Rupert Thorne."

"Your supposition is, unfortunately, correct. However, three weeks ago (just before we '_happened_' to get side-tracked by this Mad Hatter business), I was at least able to uncover the identity of the arms dealer's middleman."

Another computer button was pressed. Changing the map to the photograph of a one-eyed man (wearing a white patch over his right eye) dressed like a desert-dwelling nomad of the Near East.

"An ex-CIA mercenary," continued Batman: ". . .who did a lot of gun-running to the Muhajideen during the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. I'm still trying to determine his real name. Yet, I do know that he's long since become internationally infamous, as a hitman, under his Cold War-era code name. Deathstroke!"

Robin paused to ponder all this information.

"So, let me get this straight. You think this Khan Noonein Singh is using Indian women, posing as refugees, to mule China-white in order to barter it for badly-needed arms and ammo."

Batman grinned: "Bingo!"

"Well, even if all that's true, where does a vigilante war against Thorne fit in?"

"It serves the dual purpose of crippling his monopoly on the local narcotics trade, while simultaneously distracting him from investigation- -and elimination- -of the new competition."

"And, you're reason for thinking that the Mad Hatter will hit Thorne's place, tonight?" persisted Robin.

The Dark Knight's grin became even wider.

"You mean, aside from the weekly punctuality he's shown, so far? Because, tonight is Friday night, the weekend before the Fourth of July (which, this year, falls on a Wednesday). That means a large influx of tourists from out of town. Some of them, wealthy and thrill-seeking enough that they'll take a chance at Thorne's gaming tables! Therefore, if I were the Mad Hatter, I'd pick tonight to brazenly rob it. Preferably, with a large, well-armed crew at my back."

"In that case," replied the Teen Wonder: ". . .should I call Batgirl, as an added precaution?"

Batman shook his head: "She wouldn't be able to make it on time. She's in Metropolis, observing the tenth anniversary of her parents' accident."

In that much, the Dark Knight was truly not hypothesizing.

Barbara Wilson's mother had been born Margaret Clarke. And, she had been Alfred Pennyworth's younger 'sister" only in the sense that he had been her Big Brother (as in, Big Brothers and Sisters of America). At which time, Alfred been a drama student enrolled at Metropolis University. And, on one of his mentoring visits to the residence of the Widow Clarke, he had happened to be accompanied by his dormitory room mate.

Both the latter and Margaret had been instantly smitten with each other. And the relationship they had started that day culminated (to nobody's surprise; least of all, Alfred's) in marriage, ten years later. It was, therefore, doubly heart-breaking when _both_ of nine year-old Barbara's parents had died in a car crash!

Barbara now approached the twin headstones, flowers in hand. She placed half of the bouquet (melanistic "Dr. Midnite" orchids) in front of her father's grave marker. Then, she turned to place the rest of the flowers (pearl-white marguerite daisies) in front of her mother's. Only to stop dead in her tracks and gasp. For someone had left an identical bundle of daisies, there, already!

And, after her maternal grandmother's passing, there had been only one other person besides Barbara who knew her mother's birth flower. She turned to look at the headstone that read:

"SLADE WILSON

Beloved Husband

Beloved Father"

"1/1/46-3/27/91"

**tbc**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3.**

**SOMEWHERE IN THE PENTAGON**

**(THREE YEARS EARLIER)**

"You have an impressive record, Colonel," said Amanda Waller (looking over a beige dossier): "But, I want to hear- - from your own lips- -why you think you're the best one to take over as field leader of this project."

Colonel Slade Wilson (U. S. Army Special Forces) stood at parade rest as he began his reply.

"There is no denying that Dr. Keyes was a brilliant man. . .in the laboratory. But, with all due respect, ma'am? He had zero military experience in the field! Whereas I have lived off the land (behind enemy lines), more-than-enough times to realize that a true hunter always tailors his methodology to the nature of the individual prey he is hunting. Because, what succeeds on one occasion might not work a second time in a row. Not even with a different specimen of the same prey!"

"If Dr. Keyes had had that kind of field experience under his belt, it might have occurred to him that these extra-terrestrial hunters might very well have hunted _other_ extra-terrestrials in between visits to Earth. And on planets with lighting conditions radically different from those _on_ Earth! Up to, and including, frequencies higher than ultra-violet and lower than infra-red."

"By contrast, Lt. Harrigan of the LAPD instinctively realized this because he, himself, is a highly trained- -and experienced- -hunter of men. Thereby allowing him to succeed at taking this creature down."

Waller smiled. . .like a Cheshire cat with rabies.

"Nice speech, Colonel. But, can you honestly _guarantee_ that you can do better at bagging one of these things, alive?"

"No, ma'am, I can't. And no one else in their right mind honestly could, either! Because, real life is more fluid than any battle plan; no matter how well formulated. The best I can legitimately promise you is that I can learn from the good doctor's mistakes. . .and engineer a situation that will prove irresistible to the next Predator that visits Earth."

Thanking him for his frankness, Waller sent Wilson back to the anteroom. Five minutes later, she sent Lieutenant Garber to relay her decision. Which the latter did. . .with a preliminary salute.

"Welcome to the project, sir. Allow me to show you around!"

**THE PARADISE CASINO,**

**GOTHAM CITY, N. J.**

**(JUNE 29, 2001) **

The maître d'hôtel, inspected the five men who walked up to the dining room's velvet rope, next. They were all dressed the exact same way: black suits (with matching shoes and ties), off-set by white shirts. The youngest of the group appeared to be in his very early twenties. While the second oldest of them (the bald one) appeared to be the one in charge.

"May I help you?"

The bald man nodded: "Dixon Hill; party of five. We have a reservation."

"Ah, yes! Right this way."

The quintet was subsequently led to a table near the band stand.

"Here are your menus! Your waiter will be with you, shortly."

"Thank you."

As soon as the maître d'hôtel was out of earshot, Riker leaned forward.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, sir? Masquerading as Federal agents, I mean?"

Picard nodded: "The UFO sightings of this time period are filled with urban legends, about non-descript men in black, investigating eyewitnesses the very next day. It will preserve the Prime Directive for us to appear to be those kind of men."

"But, a gambling casino?!" Riker persisted.

"This is where that Englishman I spoke to on the telephone said they'd be coming," Wesley now interjected: "Some kind of fund-raiser for something called the Tompkins Free Clinic."

He was, of course, referring to Richard Grayson and his legal guardian, Bruce Wayne. A billionaire philanthropist who had somehow persuaded an otherwise fully booked stage magician, stage-named Zatanna, to do a one-night stand for charity.

The tickets had sold out within an hour of the news being made public.

As for the time-traveling quintet? Their runabout had landed twenty-four hours earlier. And, when Riker had asked precisely _where_ they had landed, the Traveler had smilingly replied:

"In a small clearing near the foot of Ghost Mountain. The geographic eponym for a local Native American reservation. Some of whose present-day inhabitants will have descendants on Dorvan IV! Not to worry, though. No one will stumble across it before we are finished, here. And, from here, Wesley and I can teleport us all to Downtown Gotham City."

"Are we not dressed rather. . .conspicuously, for that?" Spock had asked.

And, Picard had been unable to resist chuckling as he replied that he had a remedy for that.

"But, it will require you establishing a mind-meld between the Traveler and myself," he had added.

Spock had nodded. And, moments later, the Traveler mentally saw what the good captain had in mind. While, conversely, Picard saw why the enigmatic being from Tau Ceti had needed his and Riker's help for this dire mission. Riker would be serving as their chief of security. While Picard's broad archeological knowledge of this time period would help the five of them blend in better. Combine this with Spock's knowledge of his mother's genealogy, and they might be able to accomplish this mission with nobody at the Starfleet Department of Temporal Investigations any the wiser!

By ten o'clock of that Friday morning, the quintet had entered the lobby of the Gotham Ritz-Carlton Hotel, where they promptly rented a suite of adjoining rooms on the next-to-top floor. This had not been their first stop, however. That dubious honor went to a certain pawn shop, where Picard and Riker had been forced to trade their golden comm-badges for some much-needed cash!

"Not to worry," the Traveler had reiterated: "Wesley and I have our own unique mind-meld. So, we shall all be able to keep in touch, just as effectively, as long as one of us is accompanying either of you."

Once they were comfortably settled in, it was Wesley who had made the phone call to Wayne Manor. Pretending (under Spock and Picard's coaching) to be a reporter for a certain magazine they both knew to be very popular among teenagers of this time period. And, thereby, pretending to want a face-to-face interview with young Richard Grayson.

The question as to where the latter would be, later that day, had been deftly answered by a man calling himself "Alfred." Yet, at the same time, something in his phrasing made Wesley suspect Alfred had also been rather evasive.

"He refused to tell me precisely _when_ they'd be arriving at that casino, as Bruce Wayne is apparently famous for _always_ being fashionably late!"

To which Spock had (quite logically) replied: "Then, we shall have to arrive ahead of them, and muster the requisite patience to wait."

Their patience would be rewarded in ways they could never have anticipated.

* * * * *

Suddenly, the lights in the dining room went dim, at the same as a stage-in-the-round began to rise from the dance floor.

"Ladies and gentlemen," intoned the master of ceremonies over the P.A. system: "Preeeeeeeeeeeesenting; fresh from Las Vegas, Nevada. That Crown Princess of Prestidigitation. . .ZATANNA!"

Everyone began to clap, accordingly. Several even "ooh-ed" and "ah-ed" as there came a small explosion of white smoke! Followed by the apparent materialization, out of thin air, of a lovely young woman wearing fishnet stockings; a black tuxedo jacket with tails; and a top hat that she doffed as she melodramatically bowed. Revealing long, black hair that complemented her lovely blue eyes.

"Greetings, Gothamites!" she exclaimed: "As you already know, tonight's performance is dedicated to the continued operation of the Tompkins Free Medical Clinic. So, before we do anything else, why don't you get out your wallets while I pass the hat? POT TAH! TAOLF MORF ELBAT OT ELBAT."

Whereupon, her seemingly enchanted chapeau began to levitate in a counter-clockwise circle!

"Fascinating," whispered Mr. Spock, with an arched eyebrow.

That sentiment was shared not only by the other four men at the table. But, also everyone else in the room, as they put up to a hundred dollars per person into the seemingly bottomless hat! This, in turn, prompted a uniformed security guard named "Ian Mueller" (who was watching the show via a closed-circuit TV monitor) to smile. He then lifted his left arm, and spoke into what most people thought was merely a wristwatch.

"Falseface to Mad Hatter. Falseface to Mad Hatter. Now's the time! Over."

"Mad Hatter to Falseface. Roger that. We are beginning infiltration. . .now!"

At which point, two figures in black began descending on ropes, mountaineer-style, to a certain office window on the third floor of the nightclub  
casino.

"Deadshot to Mad Hatter," one of them began to recite: "Deadshot to Mad Hatter. We are in position! Over."

"Acknowledged, Deadshot. Proceed with Phase 2."

Whereupon, the two figures in black pushed off, from the side of the building, and swung outward at a ninety-degree angle. At the arc of that swing, one of them withdrew an Uzi submachine gun with built-on silencer. . ..and started firing subsonic armor-piercing bullets at the bulletproof window of Rupert Thorne's office!

It was, therefore, the ensuing crash of breaking glass that the Caped Crusaders (staked out on the roof of a neighboring office building) picked up over their parabolic microphones.

"Looks like it's time for action, Robin."

The Teen Wonder merely grinned.

** tbc**


End file.
